


Evenstar Bakery & Cafe

by downlookingup



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, No Incest, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-06-09 18:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downlookingup/pseuds/downlookingup
Summary: Jaime gets into bakeries, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the tall baker with blue eyes.





	1. Black Walnut Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by [this piece in the New York Times' Modern Love column](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/20/style/modern-love-boy-what-a-fabulous-baker.html). This has been sitting in my WIP folder for about two years and I don't really know where its going but maybe finally posting it will be the kick in the ass I need.

If there was one thing that social media was good for, Jaime Lannister decided, it was finding a bakery willing to make a five-tiered birthday cake for his father in four days. Their usual bakery had been shut down by a Department of Health inspector over a rodent infestation, and Jaime wasn’t about to pay six thousand dragons for an extra serving of mouse shit. Other bakeries that catered to their set were booked solid through the next few months, despite Jaime’s best efforts to throw loads of cash at them.

Myrcella was the one who suggested looking on Instaraven. Its user base skewed younger, she said, and a younger baker would be more willing to take on such a big project for less money. Jaime tried not look surprised at hearing such sound reasoning coming from a sixteen-year-old. 

_She’ll be Tywin’s heir yet_ , Jaime thought, as he hung up on the fifth King’s Landing bakery listed on the app. The first four shops had turned down the commission, but the fifth shop, Evenstar Bakery, had jumped on the offer. The woman he spoke to had twice asked him to repeat the amount—significantly less than six thousand dragons, mind—before she gleefully agreed to make a black walnut cake with spiced cream cheese frosting, which she would dye Lannister red before decorating it with gold lions.

Jaime sent a courier along with the check and, four days later, two men in blue aprons embroidered with the bakery’s sun-and-moon logo delivered a bright red, four-foot confection to the Lannister penthouse. Instead of piping the lions in gold icing, she’d sculpted them out of shimmering gum paste, taking the time to detail the fur on the mane, legs, and tail of each of the five lions. It was delicious, too. The sharp, nutty flavor of the cake contrasted nicely with the smooth and not-too-sweet frosting and practically melted in his mouth. Even Cersei, his twin sister, smiled when she bit into it.

Later that night, as he sat in his darkened dining room eating the slice he’d saved, Jaime felt a twinge of guilt for paying so little for the best cake he could remember having in years, and made a note of telling Uncle Kevan to cater corporate events through Evenstar from then on.


	2. Parmesan and Basil Scones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, Jaime found himself standing outside of Evenstar Bakery on a Saturday morning while walking his greyhounds.

Somehow, Jaime found himself standing outside of Evenstar Bakery on a Saturday morning while walking his greyhounds. He’d looked up the address a few weeks ago, just to know how much time it would take them to deliver the pastries for Monday morning meetings, and had realized it was only six blocks away from the Lannister Holdings building in the Old Gate neighborhood. That meant it was only three blocks away from his own apartment.

He tied Honor and Glory to a bike rack outside the shop and went inside. He’d expected something smaller and busier, like the century-old cafés in Braavos, but this was much simpler. The tall, plate glass windows and the white walls made the room look larger than it was. Six wooden tables, currently unoccupied, filled out the space on the near side of the display case that spanned the width of the shop. Inside the case, dozens upon dozens of baked goods were arranged in orderly rows, each capped by a pale blue card identifying each treat. Candied bacon cookies, triple lemon cupcakes, hazelnut brioche buns, onion and cheese bread loaves, brown bread rolls. There were stands with clear covers all over the case, with cakes and pies of all kinds, and baskets full to bursting with muffins as big as his hand. The smell of fresh espresso in the air made Jaime’s mouth water.

He looked over the countertop and saw a woman kneeling on the floor, her ample rear poking out of the cabinet. She hadn’t heard him come in.

“Excuse me?” he called out.

The woman jerked at the sound of his voice and slammed her head loudly on the underside of the cabinet. “Shit!”

She slid out, clutching the top of her head, and looked up at him, her freckled face and neck turning crimson. Her cropped, straw-blonde hair stuck up at odd angles, sections of it dusted with flour or powdered sugar, and a smear of purple icing cut across her crooked nose. She looked like a mess, except for her large, crystal-blue eyes. The rest of her was plain and awkward, but her eyes were astonishing.

“Are you okay?” Jaime asked.

“Yup. Sorry.” She scrambled to her feet awkwardly. “How can I help you?”

Jaime drew in a breath as he watched her stretch to her full height. She was taller than him by an inch or two, which meant that she was the tallest woman he’d ever met. Jaime was tall by most standards, but she was outstanding. 

“What do you want?” she snapped, and Jaime blinked, suddenly aware that he had been staring. She was scowling at him ferociously; it made her look uglier, but it also made her eyes glow. Was there such a thing as blue wildfire?

Her glare was disconcerting. He cleared his throat and diverted his attention to the pies. “I don’t know. Everything looks good.” That strawberry rhubarb pie with the star-shaped crust most of all. “What do you recommend?”

“Uh… everything.”

Jaime laughed and looked up. She wasn’t smiling. 

“You’re very serious,” he said, with a mocking pout.

Somehow, her frown deepened. “I’m a baker, not a comedian,” she replied flatly.

“Oh. You’re the owner.” He’d figured she was an employee, but now he recognized her voice as the woman he’d spoken with on the phone the first time. She was much younger than he’d imagined, in her early twenties at most. “You look like you’re still in high school.”

Through gritted teeth, she asked, “Are you very familiar with what high school girls look like?”

He couldn’t help but laugh again. “You say you’re not a comedian, but— “

“Do you plan to order anything?”

“Do you have pet treats?”

“What?”

“Pet treats. For pets. Dogs, cats.”

Tall Baker seemed almost affronted by the suggestion. “No. I don’t bake for animals.”

“Well, you should. You’re marginalizing the canine population.” He pointed out the door at Glory and Honor, who were laying on the sidewalk with their heads resting on their crossed front paws, staring balefully into the shop.

Despite his efforts, the frown seemed to be glued permanently to Tall Baker’s forehead. “I’ll consider it.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Tall Baker kept looking over his shoulder at the door, clearly hoping someone would come in and give her an excuse to ignore him. Jaime was tempted to continue torturing her with awkwardness, but he had better things to do than engage in a staring contest with a strange woman.

He tapped on the glass. “Give me two of these parmesan-basil scones.” He figured they would make a good late breakfast.

Tall Baker almost tripped over herself to open the case, take out two golden, crumbly scones with a pair of tongs, and put them inside a blue paper bag. “It’ll be eight dragons.”

Jaime let out a long whistle as he pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. “They better be good,” he said, handing her a ten-dragon bill.

“They are,” she said, and the conviction in her voice contradicted her graceless manner so much that he had to laugh.

She slammed his change onto the countertop and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”

Jaime grabbed the bag and winked at her. “Keep the change.”

He untied Honor and Glory from the rack and headed down the street. They stopped at the corner, waiting for the walk sign, and Jaime stuck his hand into the bag and tore a chunk from one of the scones. 

He popped it into his mouth, and his eyes closed of their own volition.

“Seven fucking hells,” he moaned.

It was the best scone he’d ever had.


	3. Pastrami on Rye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lannisters weren’t supposed to be so enthusiastic about anything except the family business and the family legacy.

For three weeks, Jaime made the almost-superhuman effort of getting to work early for Monday morning meetings. His early arrivals had nothing to do with finding out if Tall Baker did her own deliveries—she did not—and everything to do with the pumpernickel bagels with lox and herb cream cheese and the lemon-poppy seed muffins in the conference room spread. He even ignored his father’s disapproving looks and took some of the leftovers for his own lunch.

Tyrion asked him why he didn’t just buy lunch at Evenstar Bakery, and Jaime had only been able to mutter some half-assed excuse about the distance between the office and the bakery. The truth was he felt a little embarrassed about how much he liked the food there. Lannisters weren’t supposed to be so enthusiastic about anything except the family business and the family legacy. He’d followed Evenstar on Instaraven and immediately had to follow three other bakeries in a ridiculous attempt to pretend that he had suddenly grown an interest in bread and pastries.

That third Saturday, he took Glory and Honor for a walk and ended up on North Driftmark Street once more. He told himself he was only interested in the food, that the strange but amusing conversation he’d had with the owner had nothing to do with it. Jaime tied the dogs to the bike rack once again and went inside.

Tall Baker wasn’t there, having been replaced by a skinny kid with an angry red pimple on his nose. Jaime thought he recognized him from the Monday morning deliveries, but if the kid recognized him, he didn’t let on. He grinned when Jaime came in, proving himself to be considerably friendlier than his boss. “Welcome to Evenstar Bakery & Cafe. Would you like to hear about today’s lunch special?” It came out in the measured tone of someone who had practiced his lines thoroughly.

“Sure,” Jaime said, just to buy himself a few minutes to decide what he really wanted. The basil parmesan scones were missing from the case, but there was an entirely new selection of food to choose from. Maple pecan cookies. Banana-walnut bread. Loaves of crusty rosemary ciabatta next to a tray of delicate strawberry macarons. The ciabatta would make for great morning toast with eggs. And Myrcella and Tommen would love some macarons.

“We’ve got our famous pastrami on rye sandwich with homemade potato chips,” the server said, with the stiff air of someone reading a teleprompter, “and a dark chocolate and chili donut for dessert.”

Jaime’s stomach growled against his will. He’d only had coffee this morning—which probably meant that he’d unconsciously planned this little unplanned visit after all—and the special sounded pretty damned good. “Yeah, okay. I’ll have that.”

There was only one other person in the store, a stout man in his early twenties, typing away furiously at a laptop with a large coffee at his elbow. Jaime sat close to the door and saw Honor and Glory looking miffed at his decision to take his time. “Hey,” he asked the kid, “do you mind if I bring my dogs inside?”

The kid’s eyes widened, surprised by his request. This was clearly not part of the script he’d been given. “Uh… I’m n–not sure if t–that’s okay,” he stammered. He took a look out the door, and his face softened at the sight of Jaime’s dogs tied up to the lamppost outside. “I’ll ask t–the boss.” He disappeared into the back.

“I don’t think Brienne will mind,” the writer said, smiling. “She loves dogs.”

“Brienne?”

“The owner. That’s her name. Brienne Tarth.”

 _Brienne_. That certainly rolled off the tongue more easily than Tall Baker. _A pretty name for an ugly woman_ , he thought. The fat writer must be her boyfriend. _How sweet. She bakes, he writes._ Jaime pictured her in a frilly pink apron like a ‘50s housewife, setting a cupcake down next to the writer and smacking a prim kiss on his balding head. He smiled, amused, at the image, a sharp contrast to the sour-faced woman he’d met a few weeks ago.

When the kitchen door swung open, Jaime looked up. He saw the exact moment when Brienne the Baker realized he wasn’t just another customer. Her placid, the-customer-is-always-right mask dropped and she scowled. Her shoulders heaved as she took a deep breath and stalked towards him. 

She was wearing a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of jeans that were too short on her, and flour covered her arms. Only her hands were clean, and Jaime noted their broadness. They seemed suitable for kneading bread, not for piping delicate patterns like the lions on Tywin’s cake. She was a woman of contrasts, like those pretty blue eyes on that broad, homely face.

“You’re not a very tidy baker, are you?” Jaime heard himself say. 

She looked down at her clothes and her face turned red. “If you don’t get dirty while baking, you’re not doing it right,” Brienne said, with a note of finality. “Are your dogs trained?”

Jaime scoffed. “Of course.” Like he’d spend ten thousand dragons on purebred Lorathi greyhounds only to have them run wild all over the place.

She rolled her eyes, but said, “You can bring them in. Just keep them away from the other customers.”

Jaime made a show of looking around at the near-empty shop. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to bother all these people.” He grinned at her livid glare and went to get the dogs. Glory and Honor slumped down by his feet under the table, grateful to be out of the heat, and almost immediately fell asleep.

Brienne had moved on to the writer, who seemed to be regaling her with the details of his latest chapter. Jaime only saw the way she put one of her large hands on the man’s shoulder and grinned at him, utterly unconcerned by the way her teeth stuck out of her wide mouth like a horse’s. Then, instead of kissing him as she had in Jaime’s bizarrely un-erotic daydream, she grabbed his empty coffee mug and returned with a refill. 

When she turned around to go back in the kitchen, she caught Jaime staring and glared anew. She stomped away with all the grace of an aurochs in a china shop.

Less than ten minutes later, the pimply server returned with his food. Jaime’s mouth watered at the sight of it as the kid described the dish. The rye had been baked this morning, the pastrami was made down the road in an organic butcher’s shop, and it was topped with oozing Swiss cheese and an onion marmalade that smelled sweet and sharply sour at once. The homemade chips were fried to golden perfection, and the entire plate was still steaming. 

When Jaime bit into it, the toasted bread that mingled with the tender and peppery meat, the sweet and spicy marmalade that fused with the bitter melted cheese, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only him and the sandwich, a man and an explosion of flavor so intense that his brain could no longer find the words to describe it. Delectable? Ambrosial? Succulent? Was there even a word for how this sandwich tasted? Jaime was vaguely aware of a tremor emanating from his throat, but only realized it was him, humming in pleasure like a purring cat, after the third bite. 

He opened his eyes to see Brienne behind the counter, eyes wide and thick lips parted, gaping at him. _If I kissed her, what would she taste like?_ The thought caught him off guard, but he giddily followed it down the rabbit hole. Vanilla, he decided. Nutmeg, cloves, and brandy. Spicy and sweet, like a glass of cold milk punch. She looked away quickly, furiously polishing the display case with a rag, and Jaime decided to scarf down the rest of his sandwich and get the donut to go. There was a situation happening below his belt and he wanted to leave before it got awkward.

The kid returned with the check and a white paper bag with the bakery’s logo. Jaime handed him a twenty-dragon bill and told him to keep the change, and the kid asked, “D–did you like t–the sandwich, sir?”

Brienne had moved on to rearranging the paper coffee cups next to the espresso machine, but Jaime saw her move her head subtly towards them. Jaime raised his voice so she would hear. “It’s the best fucking sandwich I’ve ever had.”

The grin she tried to bite back was the only answer he needed.

That night, he dreamed of her. She was wearing the frilly pink apron, only this time, it was the only thing she was wearing. He was sitting where the fat writer had been, and he watched her wide rump with delight as she bent to pull a tray of cupcakes out of the oven. Her naked hips swung to the beat of a silent song as she decorated them, and when she placed a cupcake on the table in front of him, he pulled her down into his lap so she could feel the hardness growing there. That was when he realized the apron wasn’t cloth at all, but pink buttercream frosting, and he proceeded to lick it all away.


	4. Feta and Spinach Muffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday morning found Jaime sitting alone in Conference Room B, waiting for the breakfast delivery.

Monday morning found Jaime sitting alone in Conference Room B, waiting for the breakfast delivery. He wanted first pick from the spread, even though the muffins and buns were always the same size and baked to perfection.

After he got home from the bakery on Saturday, he considered eating the chili-chocolate donut, but the thought of having to wait one full day before eating something made by Brienne was too depressing. He’d saved the donut for Sunday morning, and then he’d gone for a long run with the dogs to keep his mind off the bakery. Jaime needed the exercise anyway, after all the carbs he’d been eating recently, and if he passed the closed storefront on his run, it was only a coincidence.

He was doodling in his notepad—a misshapen torso with extremely long legs and an apron—when the door opened and two carts were wheeled in. He recognized Brienne’s husky voice immediately.

“—And we’ll put the scones in the front. They’re always the first to go,” she was saying to the pimply server from the bakery. She pushed her cart to the table on the side of the room and began unwrapping the trays full of freshly baked food.

“Good morning,” Jaime said.

Brienne gave a violent jerk and the tray tumbled out of her broad hands, dumping every single scone on the carpet. “Shit!” She dropped to her hands and knees and began gathering the scones. The kid stared on in horror, frozen in place. Jaime got up and grabbed the scones that had rolled under the table.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, kneeling down next to her to pile the scones on the dropped tray. “Brienne, right?”

She seemed startled by the sound of her name. “Yes. Sorry. It’s my fault, I’m too clumsy.” She glared at the kid. “Keep going, Podrick! They’ll be here any minute.” The boy jumped to action, unwrapping and placing the food deftly. She turned to him, that familiar scowl still on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” he said. It was true enough. “What are _you_ doing here? You don’t usually make deliveries.”

“Goodwin—the driver—is sick. And it’s too much food for one person to lay out.”

“You only have two employees?” Jaime couldn’t help but sound surprised. “Did you make Tywin’s birthday cake all by yourself?” He’d figured she had a team of bakers in the kitchen, even if she only had one person in the front of the shop. 

She stood up, set the tray down on the cart again, and squared her shoulders. “Yes, I did. Are you shocked?”

“I’m impressed. It was a big request for such a short amount of time. Most bakeries would have had five people working on it at once.”

She turned her back to him and went back to arranging the rest of the food on the table. “I can’t afford five people. Business isn’t exactly thriving. But you noticed that, didn’t you?”

Jaime winced. His quip about not bothering the other customers had been pretty rude. “I’m sorry to hear that. Your food is better than half the bakeries in town. More than half, probably.”

Brienne shrugged. “It is what it is. I can’t make people eat my food. All I can do is try my best.”

A few people came in, but Jaime ignored their greetings. “Was that pastrami on rye your best?”

It was like a nervous tic, the smile that twisted her face into something nearly pleasing. She blushed, clearly embarrassed by how pleased she felt by Jaime’s compliment of her sandwich. “That was my dad’s best,” she said. “It was famous back home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Evenfall,” she said. “East of Storm’s End.”

“I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to have great beaches.” 

Brienne had a vaguely wistful look on her face like she was seeing it in her mind. “It does.”

“Why did you leave?”

As if a switch had been flipped, her face soured, and Jaime regretted asking. He scrambled for a change of topic. “Sorry, it’s none of my—”

“My dad wanted to move the bakery to King’s Landing. A wider market, he said. We sold everything, and then he died two days before we left.” She piled the empty trays and balled up the sheets of plastic wrap. The display looked amazing, every single piece looking like a prizewinner. The dejected look she gave him, however, her blue eyes wide and sad, chased away his appetite. “Turns out I’m not a very good administrator. That was his job. I just baked.”

Other than, “I’m sorry,” he didn’t quite know what to say. The conference room was almost full and people were already lining up to grab plates, only the carts were in the way. She and Pod pushed the carts outside, and Jaime followed her.

“Listen, I’m a financial advisor. I can advise you if you want, free of charge.” He reached into his jacket pocket for his card, but she shook her head firmly.

“Thanks, but you can keep your pity. We’re handling it.”

“Pity?” A surge of anger washed over him. She was determined to think the worst about him, wasn’t she? Coming from a woman he hardly knew, it shouldn’t have bothered it as much as it did. “You’re very proud, aren’t you?”

“And you’re very arrogant, aren’t you?” she shot back.

Her frankness left him momentarily speechless. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him like that. Around here, everyone groveled at his feet, scared of unintentionally insulting Tywin Lannister’s son. But Brienne didn’t know. “I’m only trying to help you. If you knew who I was— “

“Whoever you are, I don’t need your help or your patronage.” She gave him that forced smile again, the one she gave when she was faking politeness. “Have a nice day.” She left, pushing the cart, and Pod threw an apologetic grimace over his shoulder before hurrying off after her.

She didn’t need his help or his patronage? _We’ll see how well she does without it_ , he thought, savagely. He’d speak with Uncle Kevan that afternoon and tell him to find a different caterer. Her attitude today had been completely unprofessional, and not just because he was a Lannister. _She shouldn’t have spoken to any Lannister Holdings employee like that, period_.

The meeting had already started by the time Jaime returned to the conference room. He avoided his father’s judgmental gaze as he found his seat next to Tyrion. The plate in front of his brother only had crumbs left.

“So, you finally met your hero,” Tyrion whispered.

“What are you talking about?” he whispered back.

“That was the Evenstar woman you were talking to outside, right? Did you ask for her autograph?”

Someone shushed them, and Jaime was only happy to let the topic drop. But his phone vibrated in his pocket.

 _She’s TALL_ , Tyrion texted him.

 _You’re SHORT_ , Jaime tapped back. _Also, she’s a bitch._

_And you’re a prick. See? A match made in heaven._

Jaime suppressed a snort of derision. _Hardly. She hates my guts._

 _And you love her food. You poor, star-crossed lovers_ , Tyrion wrote. _Broken heart emoji. Crying emoji. Heart-eyes emoji._

He typed his answer, deleted it, then typed it again. He sent it. It felt like blasphemy. _It’s overrated._

Tyrion choked back a laugh and covered it up by coughing. They both studiously ignored their father’s glare from the head of the table. _So... I can have your feta and spinach muffin?_

Feta and spinach muffins? Gods. He’d been waiting two weeks for her to bring those back into the rotation. He scowled at his phone. _Yep. Don’t want it_.

Tyrion replied: _Winking emoji. Thumbs up emoji. Drooling emoji._

Jaime set his phone screen down on the table and flipped open his notepad to take notes. When he saw his stupid doodle of Brienne, he scratched it out until he tore a hole through the paper.

When the meeting was over, he filed out of the room with everyone else without a look back at the almost entirely empty breakfast table, but only made it halfway to his office. The assistants were already raiding the remains of the table when he returned, but they parted when they saw him, and he grabbed the last feta and spinach muffin. He wrapped it in a napkin and took it back to his office, careful to keep it out of sight. If Tyrion saw him, he’d never live it down.

Once safely inside his office, he turned his chair around to face the window and unwrapped the muffin. It smelled amazing, the sharp and stinky feta, bitter spinach, and aromatic herbs in the background—mint, chives, and dill. Even though it was cold by now, it made little difference. The crust was still golden, and he bit into it, relishing how the flavors melded together in his mouth to form a perfect mouthful. It was unfair that someone so unpleasant could cook so well. 

A voice in the back of his head asked, _But isn’t she only unpleasant because you’ve been unpleasant?_ He’d been a prick, like Tyrion said. He couldn’t blame her for hitting back when that’s what he’d spent years wishing people did. He ate the rest of the muffin slowly, savoring every bite and wondering if he might be able to see Evenstar Bakery from his window.

That afternoon, when he bumped into Uncle Kevan in the hallway, he forgot—or made himself forget—his earlier decision to have Brienne fired.


	5. Supermarket Chardonnay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weather was a nice change from the sweltering summer heat of the capital, but the five-star hotel’s breakfast service paled in comparison to Evenstar’s Monday morning spread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am OVERWHELMED by the response this fic has gotten. I'm sorry I haven't been responding to comments (work and social upheaval are keeping me really busy) but know that I read and appreciate every single one of them!

For the next two weeks, Jaime was far from North Driftmark Street, at a conference in the Vale. The weather was a nice change from the sweltering summer heat of the capital, but the five-star hotel’s breakfast service paled in comparison to Evenstar’s Monday morning spread. The banana nut cupcakes were too sugary and dense, and the cheese quiche was salty and soggy. Jaime watched the other guests eating delightedly and wondered how he’d ever enjoyed slop like this. _She’s ruined baked goods for me forever_ , he thought, settling for an omelet and an apple. If anybody asked, he’d say he was on a no-carb diet.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when he ran into Brienne in the supermarket after he returned. He’d been thinking about her and her pastries so much, it was as if he’d conjured her up. She was in the wine aisle, wearing slouchy jeans that had streaks of brown and pink and green down the thighs. What had she been making, he wondered. A chocolate cake for a toddler’s birthday party, perhaps.

She grabbed a bottle of cheap chardonnay and turned to leave the aisle. She froze when she saw him, her knuckles white against the neck of the bottle, and she held it against her chest like an amulet to ward him off.

“Hi,” he said. 

“Hi,” she echoed.

“Small neighborhood.”

“Yeah.” She slowly lowered the bottle, but her shoulders remained tense. “You live around here?”

“On Sister Street. You?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she answered, “The apartment over the bakery.”

“How convenient.”

Brienne merely shrugged, and one of those awful silences settled between them, which neither of them was willing to break. She was too proud and he was too conceited. _What a pair we make_ , Jaime thought. _Maybe Tyrion was right after all_. Finally, Jaime spoke. 

“Listen, I was—”

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. Her face was red, and a grimace twisted her mouth as if every word pained her. She stared at her feet. “About last time. I was rude and you were only trying to help.”

“It’s all right. I was a prick.”

“You weren’t.” Her voice trembled slightly with a meekness that unsettled him. “I was out of line and I’ll understand if our services are no longer needed.”

Jaime stepped closer. “Your services? What are you… _Oh_.” He paused, his face falling. “You know who I am.”

Brienne wouldn’t look him in the eye as she nodded. “Podrick explained after we left. Again, Mr. Lannister, I’m very sorry. If you want, we can work out a discount—”

“Don’t,” he said, sharply. Her head snapped up, and she glowered at him briefly before she remembered she was pretending to be docile. What happened to the hard-headed woman he’d been arguing with all these months? How could a small thing like a last name turn her into a shy little mouse? The thought that it was his last name that made her act like this made him want to break something. “Don’t pretend you don’t hate me just because you know who I am now.”

The bottle came up again, her shoulders hunched inwards like she could make herself disappear. “I don’t hate you. I hardly know you.”

Jaime huffed in frustration. “You can’t stand me. You said I was arrogant, which I am. I’m also an asshole and I’ve been very rude. Admit it.”

She took a step away from him. Then, another. “Mr. Lannister…”

“Jaime,” he grumbled. “Admit it.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “You’re arrogant and rude and annoying, and I don’t understand why you keep eating my food.”

“Because it’s the best I’ve had.”

Brienne shook her head vehemently, her eyes wide and lovely. “That can’t possibly be true. You’re rich. You’ve probably been to the best bakeries in the world.”

Jaime shrugged. “I have, but yours is still the best.”

“Mr. Lannister—”

“Jaime,” he insisted.

“ _Mr. Lannister_. If you think complimenting my food will get me to—” Brienne faltered, her voice stuttering, but she pressed on, “—t-to cross a professional line, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Jaime’s mouth dropped open. “You think I’m complimenting you to get in your pants?”

She sneered. “I know I’m not much of a prize, but I know how men like you operate. You do it just to prove you can.” Jaime opened his mouth to protest, but she put her hand up sternly. “Maybe you think I’m a challenge because I’m not swooning over your name or your face—”

“My _face_?”

“—but that’s not going to work with me, so you may as well give it up.”

“I’m not trying to seduce you,” he said, pushing the dream image of the buttercream apron out of his mind. 

“Then, what do you want?”

For once, he didn’t know what to say. What _did_ he want? Not sex, surely. And not a limitless supply of baked goods. He practically had that already, with Monday breakfasts and Saturday lunches. He thought of the store, the smell of freshly baked bread, the ever-present dusting of flour in the air. The quietness of that bright, open room. That was what struck him the most. It was wrong. It should be loud with the excited chatter of clients and the constant whirr of the espresso machine. Brienne should be rushing between the kitchen and the front end, struggling to keep the display case stocked. What he wanted…

“I want to help,” he said. “As I said, I’m a financial advisor. I can help you put the bakery on track.”

By the look in her eyes, it was clear she didn’t trust him. He could hardly blame her. “What do you want in return?”

“Another pastrami on rye sandwich. Probably some scones too.”

She put the bottle back on the rack and crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes studying him closely. For the first time, she wasn’t looking at him with antipathy or defeat, but bafflement, like she couldn’t figure him out. Jaime wondered what it would take to turn that look into admiration. “You’re serious,” she said. Not a question.

“I am.” He brought out his wallet and gave her a business card. “Call my assistant tomorrow, have him set up a meeting next week. No strings attached,” he said, emphatically. He needed her to know she was free to turn him down, that he wouldn’t do what he’d almost done, not really. 

She slipped the card into the pocket of her jeans and grabbed the wine bottle again. She was about to turn away without a word, but at the last second, she mumbled, “Thank you,” over her shoulder, and Jaime watched her leave.


	6. Pastrami on Rye, redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you fucking her?” Tyrion asked.
> 
> Jaime froze, a chunk of bread halfway to his mouth. “Bri— the baker? No!”
> 
> Tyrion arched an eyebrow at Jaime’s slip. “No, not yet, or no, you’re not interested?”
> 
> “The latter one, definitely. It’s not like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Sorry for the long hiatus. It's hard to write for a living and then come home and write for fun, so I had to wait until I was in a good headspace to get back to the story. I hope you enjoy this and that you know how much I appreciate each and every comment I've gotten on this weird little story. You rock my world.

Tyrion had the uncanny ability to learn the content of everyone’s schedules, and somehow, he had found out about Jaime’s meeting with Brienne.

“Are you fucking her?” was the first thing he asked.

It was Monday afternoon, and they were in Jaime’s office, leaning over half a loaf of zucchini bread that he’d rescued from the greedy claws of the assistants that morning.

Jaime froze, a chunk of bread halfway to his mouth. “Bri— the baker? No!”

Tyrion arched an eyebrow at Jaime’s slip. “No, not yet, or no, you’re not interested?”

“The latter one, definitely. It’s not like that.” 

“Because, honestly,” he continued, as if Jaime hadn’t spoken, “you could do worse. Hells, you have done worse.” Tyrion counted out on his fingers: “Melara, Hildy, Pia, Margaery’s cousin that time in Braavos.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. That one weekend with Elinor Tyrell shouldn’t even count. “It’s not like that,” he repeated. “I’m giving her financial advice. She mentioned the bakery’s having trouble.”

“But she can afford you?”

He grimaced, knowing how it would sound. “I’m… not exactly charging her.”

“You’re doing it pro bono?” Tyrion laughed heartily. “You haven’t done pro bono work since business school!”

Jaime squared his shoulders, slightly insulted. He knew he had a reputation for being heartless and condescending, but that was only what he wanted people to think. Wasn’t it?

“Maybe I’m doing market research,” he said, even though he was fairly sure that wasn’t what he was doing. “Maybe Lannister Holdings should expand into the coffee shop market.”

Tyrion was grinning, amused. “Sure.” He put his hands up, simulating a marquee. “‘The Lannister Coffee Company’. You’ll man the espresso machine, she’ll handle the kitchen, and a small army of tow-headed rugrats will deal with the clients.” He laughed again, in the way he did when he expected his audience to join in, but Jaime found it irritating this time, too much like Cersei’s haughty mockery, and not particularly funny.

With jerky movements, he dumped the loaf of zucchini bread into its paper bag and shoved it in a drawer. “I have work to do. I’ll see you later,” he said and turned to his computer.

Tyrion’s surprised laughter followed him out the door.

* * *

The next day, when Brienne came to meet with him, Jaime almost didn’t recognize her. For one, she was flourless. Her skin was pink as if she’d just given herself a good scrubbing. Her short, yellow hair was combed and gelled into submission. And she was wearing a black, wrap-around dress that was slightly too short on her, like everything else she wore, and which showed a spray of freckles on her broad chest. 

It was surprisingly difficult to keep his eyes away from that patch of skin when he greeted her. She held her hand out and said, “Mr. Lannister,” as formal as she’d ever been, and then they went into his office and were alone.

Instead of staring each other down across his desk the way he did with his usual clients, he chose the small sitting area in the far corner of the room by the window. He took the armchair and she arranged herself on the couch, her long legs pressed together and angled to the side awkwardly, as she gaped out the window, awestruck by the view. King’s Landing sprawled out fifty stories below them.

“How long have you been living in the city?” he asked.

“Two years next February.” Brienne pulled out a sheaf of papers from her worn messenger bag. “I brought all the paperwork I could find. I figured you’d want to review it.”

Jaime took the papers and flipped through them. Tax forms, invoices, pay stubs, utility bills. There was no rhyme or reason to how they were organized. “Who does your books?”

“A friend back home. Septa Roelle. She used to do them for my father too—”

He snorted back a laugh. “A septa?”

Brienne glared at him. “She joined a motherhouse after her husband died. She was actually the first woman to earn a business degree in Westeros.”

 _Seven hells, she must be ancient_. Jaime had enough sense to keep it to himself. “Right.” He pulled out his reading glasses from his suit pocket and dove into the pile.

He was vaguely aware of Brienne watching him as he went over the papers. They painted a picture of amateurish overspending, typical of new businesses. She was probably running the shop on her inheritance and she was just barely breaking even, but she wasn’t past the tipping point yet.

When he was done, he set the papers down on the table between them and took off his glasses. Brienne had crossed her arms over her chest and was gnawing on her thumbnail, watching him with weary blue eyes. The fear in them was plain, and he wanted nothing more than to fix this problem for her. Yes, that was what he could do. She knew how to bring a man to his knees with a handful of flour and an oven. He knew how to run a business efficiently.

“So?” she asked.

“Bad news first. You’re spending too much on energy, your landlord is stiffing you on the lease, and you’re overpaying on your taxes.”

“Okay…”

“If things continue like this, you’ll likely have to close before the end of the year.”

She stiffened. “No.”

Jaime flashed her his best grin. “Good news is, I know exactly how to fix it. I can balance your books. We’ll get you a lawyer to review your lease agreement, an electrician to see what’s up with your power bill, and an advertising campaign to increase your profile. You won’t recognize the shop in three months. It’s going to be ama—”

Brienne held her hand up to quiet him. “I can’t afford any of that. You saw.”

“Not a problem. I know people. Daenerys Targaryen is the best commercial lawyer in the city and the Tyrell Media Group—”

“No.” Brienne gathered the stack of papers into her messenger bag and stood up, slipping the strap over her shoulder. She towered over him like the Titan of Braavos. It shouldn’t have been so appealing. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Lannister, but I can’t afford to hire your friends.”

Jaime scrambled to his feet. “Are you listening? I’m telling you they won’t charge you.”

They were standing mere inches apart, close enough to see the slow passage of a crimson blush creeping up her chest and neck to her ears. The delicate shells of them reddened instantly. Her eyes, though. They watched him with a ferocity that brought to mind a lioness. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because I’ll ask them not to.”

Her tone took a turn for the petulant. “But why? Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

“Do I have to want something? Don’t people ever just want to help you?”

“Men like you don’t help women like me,” she said, scowling.

“You don’t know men like me.”

“Just tell me what you want. And don’t say scones because I’ll ban you from the shop.”

She was determined to see him in a bad light, and at any other time, he would have let her. All his life, people had been expecting the worst of him. His father, for whom he’d never been sufficiently clever or serious or industrious. Everyone else, who saw him as an entitled, loaded snob. If that was what they wanted him to be, he’d been that for them. He couldn’t disappoint people if they had no expectations.

He would have been that for Brienne the Baker. Manipulative, underhanded. But he found himself craving her good opinion. Having her think ill of him made him sick. And so, the truth stumbled out from his mouth.

“I like your food,” he said. “I think more people should try it. You were right— I do like a challenge. I want to see how fast I can turn your business into a success.”

She eyed him skeptically. “That’s it? Just professional curiosity?”

“And I like you. You’re the first person I’ve met in years that didn’t try to kiss my ass in exchange for a favor.”

Brienne stared at him in silence, blue eyes wide and probing. Jaime stared back, feeling as though every bit of flesh was being burned away from his body. He had the sense that this was a key moment, that this was his only chance to be found worthy by her. He simply couldn’t understand why he cared so much.

And then, slowly, she nodded. “All right.”

“All right?” he echoed, stunned. Had he passed the test?

“I’ll accept your help—”

Jaime’s face broke out into a grin. “Good—”

“—but the second I smell something fishy, we’re done.”

“I expect nothing less.” He held out his hand. “Shake on it?”

Brienne only hesitated for a moment before putting her hand in his, her grip warm and bone-crushing. She was trying to assert herself through the centuries-old tradition of giving a firm handshake, which only made his grin wider. _Gods, what a woman._

After depositing the stack of bills and receipts on the table, she practically ran out of his office and left him alone, feeling wrung out. It wasn’t that he’d expected them to chat over coffee like old friends, but he’d craved something more than their usual banter. An actual conversation.

Not thirty minutes had passed when his assistant knocked on the door. Peck was carrying the familiar white box from Evenstar Bakery. Taped to the lid was a folded note. She wrote in impeccable cursive, the loops unfussy yet elegant. 

> _Thanks. —B_

Inside, a pastrami on rye sandwich and a blueberry scone, still warm.


	7. Empty Stomach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery giggled. “Jaime Lannister, I think you’ve got an honest-to-Gods crush.”

Jaime stared in horror at the clock above his father’s head as the minute hand ticked ever closer to noon. He was supposed to meet Margaery Tyrell at the bakery at a quarter past, but he didn’t think he was going to make it at all. One of the company’s subsidiaries, a life insurance company, had suffered a major data breach that morning, and Tywin’s office had turned into a chaotic Situation Room.

The CEO of Castamere Insurance and the president of Spider Cybersecurity were screaming blame at each other on the conference call, Kevan fruitlessly trying to get them to stop. Cersei was on the phone in the corner gabbling instructions to the press department in an attempt to keep news of the breach contained, while Tywin and Genna huddled grimly in front of the window, their voices barely above a murmur. The whole thing appeared to be amusing Tyrion, who was scrolling through the internet looking for memes to match the situation.

Jaime was supposed to be monitoring the stocks for any changes, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the clock.

When he’d told Margaery Tyrell about Brienne and Evenstar, she’d immediately agreed to help him. “You know how I love to support women,” she’d said, in a teasing voice that made his mood turn sour.

Margaery was a stunning woman who knew just how to charm the pants—or the skirt—off anyone. Jaime himself had never quite fallen under her spell, but he had been wondering all week if Brienne would. Not that it was any of his business or that he _cared_ , really. It was just that Margaery a bit of a ladykiller and Jaime didn’t want to see Brienne get hurt. That was _all_.

A ball of paper landed against his chest and he jumped, turning to Tyrion. “ _What_?”

Tyrion smirked and nodded towards their father. Tywin had stopped his pacing and was scowling at Jaime. “I said, how are the stocks?”

“Right.” He looked at his computer screen. “No changes.”

Uncle Kevan shot him an irritated glare that was an uncanny imitation of Tywin’s. “Are we boring you, Jaime?”

“No, sir.”

The clock struck twelve. He sighed.

“Is it a woman?” Tywin asked from the window.

“A _woman_ ,” echoed Cersei, her phone pressed to her shoulder. “If only.”

Jaime glared at his twin. As if she hadn’t declared cold war on every woman he’d ever introduced to her.

“It’s not a woman,” he said, curtly. “I just had a lunch meeting.”

Tywin asked: “With whom?”

At the same time, Genna said: “Your calendar is free; I checked.”

Gods. He wondered what it was like to have a family that wasn’t obsessed with knowing every single detail about you. For the Lannisters, knowledge was power, and power meant control.

“It’s a college buddy. I didn’t schedule it.”

Cersei scoffed. “Which college buddy? The only one you still talk to is Addam Marbrand and he _works_ for us.”

Five pairs of green eyes were on him, scrutinizing, judging, trying to read his mind. Jaime could almost feel himself shrinking under the weight of their stares. Brienne floated to his mind, the way her clear eyes had glazed over with sadness and fondness when she told him about her father. He’d seen the love and hurt in those eyes plainly. Jaime was fond of his family, but he wondered if he would ever feel that way if he lost one of them. Aunt Genna and Tyrion, Cersei perhaps, but he couldn’t imagine crying over Uncle Kevan or his father. The realization made his stomach sink.

“You don’t know everyone I know, Cers.”

“Of course I—”

A shrill voice came from the conference phone. “ _Are you all done with your little family spat?_ ” Roger Reyne asked. “ _We’ve got bigger things to worry about here!_ ”

Tywin’s face soured even further. He stepped forward and leaned into the phone. “Roger, you’re fired,” he growled and pushed a button. “Varys, are you still there?”

The answer came promptly. “ _Yes, sir._ ”

“Fix the firewalls, contain the breach. Keep us posted.” Another push of a button and the call was over. Tywin fixed again on Jaime. “The stocks?”

Above his head, the clock ticked past the quarter-hour.

* * *

Jaime came home long after midnight to an empty apartment. His dog walker had taken the hounds to her own apartment so they wouldn’t be alone. Between the thick glass on the walls of his apartment and the distance from the street thirty-five stories down, it was silent as a tomb.

He got a beer from the fridge and slumped on the couch to watch cable news. The story about the breach had finally broken shortly after five. The channel was currently showing the press release Tywin and Genna had written detailing the breach and what they were doing to mitigate it. The news of Roger Reyne’s dismissal and the ranting phone call he’d made to a local radio station had made sure the breach would be big news for weeks.

That meant more work, more hours, less time for himself. _Less time to see Brienne_ , he thought and quickly shoved that thought away. She didn’t really need him at the bakery anyway. He could go over her books in a single evening if he had to. But he knew he’d be working weekends for the foreseeable future, so no more weekend visits to the bakery.

Bored and irritated, he clicked off the TV and texted Margaery: “Are you up?”

His phone rang seconds later, and Margaery’s teasing voice came through. “Was that a booty call text?”

Jaime grimaced. “Of course not.”

“Good, because after meeting your girl this afternoon, I don’t think you can compare.”

“My–my girl? Brienne isn’t _my girl_.”

“You could do worse. Hells, you _have_ done worse.”

“Funny, that’s what Tyrion said.”

“Anyway, about your girl—”

“ _Not_ my—”

“—she’s an absolute peach. Smart, funny, and _so_ nice. When I told her I was a vegan, she made me this cauliflower sandwich thing with roasted red bell pepper sauce on a freshly-baked ciabatta roll. It was…”

Jaime’s mouth watered just picturing it. “Amazing,” he sighed. He was fairly sure that a cauliflower sandwich wasn’t on the menu, which meant she had made it special for Margaery. A swell of something like jealousy and envy ran through him, at the same time he was filled with affection for Brienne. She seemed to have a knack for making people feel special. He sensed she had a knack for making people feel special, and he longed desperately to feel that way too.

“Exactly. It was one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had. You picked a winner, Jaime.”

“A winner? What do you mean?”

For once, Margaery seemed at a loss for words. “You want to buy the place, don’t you? I can’t see Tywin wanting to buy a small city bakery, but it seems like the kind of investment opportunity you’d be into.”

The thought horrified him. Evenstar Bakery was Brienne’s livelihood, her entire reason for being in King’s Landing. Selling the place _would_ be the smart thing to do, Brienne would be able to pay off all her debts and hand over the management of the bakery to someone who knew what they were doing. But he couldn’t picture her working for someone else, handing over her recipes to someone who wouldn’t understand how special they were. “No, I— that’s not it at all.”

A huff of annoyance blasted against his ear. “Okay. You’re not sleeping with her and you don’t want to buy her out. So what _are_ you doing?”

After such a long, tedious day, Jaime’s neck and eyes and head ached with exhaustion, and he just didn’t have the energy to try to dissemble. “I don’t know, Marge. She’s really talented and I think she should have more customers.”

“And you like her.”

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “And I like her.”

“You have the hots for her.”

The dream-image of Brienne and the buttercream apron flashed through his mind, and his cock gave an affirmative twitch. There was no sense denying it anymore. “I guess I do.”

Margaery responded with a giggle. “Jaime Lannister, I think you’ve got an honest-to-Gods crush.”

Jaime felt his face heat up. A _crush_? It sounded so juvenile and absurd. All his previous relationships had just sort of happened. No pining, no butterflies in his stomach. Just him and a woman whose company he enjoyed. A few dinner dates, sex, and then, weeks or months later, an ending.

The last woman he could remember crushing on was Elia Martell, his roommate’s sister when he was a college sophomore. She was a grad student, with silky black hair and a gorgeous smile —and truly beautiful breasts, he remembered. Whenever Oberyn told him she was coming over, Jaime would break out his most expensive hair gel, splash on what seemed like a gallon of cologne, and stutter when she asked him how he was. He hadn’t had a chance in any of the seven hells. After she graduated, he never saw her again.

This thing with Brienne, though, this _crush_ , like Margaery put it, felt different. Less hopeless.

“But enough about you,” Margaery said. “Let’s talk business.”

Marge filled him in on what she and Brienne had discussed that afternoon. The agency would start a social media campaign to raise awareness of the bakery and generate word of mouth. They’d send a photographer and food stylist over to the bakery every week to get better pictures of the food for Instaraven. “It’s gonna be the hottest bakery in King’s Landing, I can feel it.”

Jaime grinned. “Sounds great. Have the bill sent over and I’ll take care of it.”

“One last thing,” she said, as he was about to say goodbye.

“Yes?”

“She’s been through some rough shit.” Jaime didn’t need to ask who. He’d never forget the look of weariness in Brienne’s beautiful eyes when they’d met in his office. “Don’t fuck this up,” she said and hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! Our babies will meet up again next time.


End file.
